


Out to Sea

by beetle



Series: Out to Sea [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Captured, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hydra, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of Past Ben Parker/May Parker, Past Mary Jane Watson/Peter Parker, Peter Feels, Post Spider-Man: Homecoming, Post-Canon, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Self-Harm, Slight Anhedonia, Spideypool - Freeform, Virgin Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Peter and Wade are out to sea. Literally, thanks to HYDRA. They might get rescued, they might not. But Peter's starting to feel again and Wade is more than happy to encourage him. Written for these prompts: (http://writing-challenges-and-prompts.tumblr.com/post/150599076433/lazy-writing-prompt-246);(http://zemole.tumblr.com/post/150745424552/peterstop-calling-me-princess-deadpooli). Also: dig the terrible cover art I made for it instead of sleeping!Notes/Warnings: AU, what else is new? Set post-Spider-Man: Homecoming and post-Deadpool (2016).  I think I sprained something writing the most recent chapter of “Life in Other Rooms,” and needed a relatively angst-free break. Enjoy! And, of course, comment :-)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chocolatechipcookiedough](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatechipcookiedough/gifts).



 

 

“Okay . . . we may, in fact, be trapped in here and doomed to slowly die of boredom.”

 

Deadpool didn’t respond for nearly a minute. Then, all he did was snort quietly. Not for the first time, either.

 

“That’s what _I_ said, like, an hour ago.” When Peter turned to his erstwhile sidekick, Deadpool was holding up his left arm, sleeve pushed up and glove pushed down to reveal a hot-pink _Hello Kitty_ watch. “See, Spidey? One hour almost to the _minute_. Jesus. Stop tryin’ so hard to be like me.”

 

Peter’s eyes narrowed behind his lenses (unlike Deadpool’s lenses, Peter’s _weren’t_ emotive. And Deadpool absolutely _refused_ to let Peter get a closer look at his damn mask to see how those lenses _worked_ ), and he crossed his arms, pacing back and forth from one end of their cell to the other. Not that it was that far or satisfying of a pace. About the size of two prison cells, actually, and equipped much like one, with a toilet and above that a sink; and two beds were bolted bunk-style to the opposite wall (Deadpool had immediately called the top bunk when he and Peter woke up on a cement floor, imprisoned, and had bounced peppily up there, where he’d been perched ever since). But instead of bars, their prison had some sort of opaque, cyan-blue force-field to keep them in.

 

Peter couldn’t make out anything beyond their cell, except for faint, dark, hard-edged shapes that did not move.

 

“Damn. A delta-field,” Deadpool had said after the fifth time Peter had thrown himself against it, only to get singed and shocked. “My buddy Weasel could get out of this in his sleep. He builds and dismantles this shit for a _living_ , when he’s not tending bar.”

 

Peter, in a smoking heap on the spotless-clean floor, had groaned and slowly picked himself up. His suit had been damaged beyond repair at that point: a total loss, except for the boots and mask. The rest of it was threadbare or simply burned away from being singed by the delta-field, leaving patches of pale, now-hairless skin exposed.

 

“I don’t suppose Weasel taught _you_ how he dismantled things like this, huh?” he’d asked Deadpool, who was swinging his ridiculously muscular legs back and forth like they were at a sleepover, not their ultimate demise. Well, _Peter’s_ ultimate demise. For Deadpool, this’d all probably just amount to an interesting story to tell _Weasel_ , someday.

 

“Spill a trade secret? _Weas_?” Deadpool had snorted for the first time since they woke up in what could only be a HYDRA prison cell. “ _Clearly_ you haven’t been hearing my origins stories with your listening-ears, Baby Boy.”

 

“Clearly I haven’t,” Peter had murmured back, reaching out to the delta-field again and poking at it repeatedly with his left index finger, till the painful shock-burn had ceased to hurt and his finger had gone numb. Till the tip was black and a bit raw-looking, and Peter could smell, very faintly, cooked meat. Absently fascinated, Peter knew he was dissociating . . . divorcing himself slowly, but surely from a reality gone irrevocably pear-shaped. He hadn’t done it too often since a few months after Uncle Ben died three years ago, and before that . . . not since two or three years after his parents had died. Maybe it made sense, then, that now, at the time and place of his own (if he was _lucky_ ) death, he’d do the same.

 

 _Zz-zzt!_ Went the delta-field . . . and the tip of Peter’s finger had begun smoking like an extinguished candle. . . .

 

“Hey-hey, baby, don’t _do_ that,” Deadpool had chastised suddenly, and from _right behind_ Peter, startling him as he put large hands on Peter’s biceps and pulled him away from the delta-field. Peter had gone without hesitation, letting Deadpool sit him on the bottom bunk.

 

Then the ex-merc had knelt before Peter, gazing up at him with narrowed, somehow _worried_ lenses, rubbing Peter’s arms as if Peter was cold.

 

“Okay. I see what’s goin’ on,” he finally said softly, nodding and letting go of Peter’s right arm to tip Peter’s chin up. His left hand slid down to take Peter’s right. Even kneeling, with Peter sitting markedly above him, he was still almost Peter’s height. “I don’t _need_ the top bunk, y’know? _You_ can have it, if that’d make you chill with the self-harm shtick.”

 

Peter couldn’t have given two sailing shits _which_ bunk the ex-merc took. Or if he took both of them and made Peter sleep on the floor. But, as usual, in the worst scenarios they faced together, Deadpool had made him smile. Even chuckle a little.

 

“That’s, uh . . . real sweet of you, Deadpool. But I’m fine on the bottom.”

 

“Yeah,” Deadpool had agreed wistfully. “I’ll bet you _are_ , too.”

 

Blushing, Peter had rolled his eyes, and smacked Deadpool’s right hand away from his face and his left away from its gentle hold of Peter’s burnt hand. “Aaaand, you’ve just ruined the moment. Fuck _off_ , Deadpool!” He’d waved and flailed his arms when Deadpool tried to touch him again and pull him into a hug. And he’d _kept_ flailing until the other man took the hint and, with a shrug, stood up. He’d approached the delta-field curiously and reached out toward it, but didn’t touch it. Simply let his gloved hand hover less than a millimeter away.

 

“I wish Weas was here,” he’d said softly. This time, _Peter_ had snorted.

 

“You and me, both.”

 

That’d been three hours ago. Now, Deadpool was back in the top bunk, humming _Rhapsody in Blue,_ pretty well in tune, while watching Peter pace. And occasionally glancing at his _Hello Kitty_ watch to then announce the time.

 

Peter had long since stopped wanting to throttle the man. Now, he just tuned him out.

 

“Heyya, Spidey?”

 

Peter grunted, pausing and staring at the delta-field again. He reached out toward it slowly, so Deadpool wouldn’t notice.

 

“When d’ya think they’re gonna do . . . _whatever_ they’re gonna do to us? I mean, we’ve been here nearly five hours and they haven’t even stopped by to _gloat_!”

 

Peter huffed. “You in a hurry, or somethin’? Got a train to catch?”

 

“Nah, just . . . well, I can’t figure out what their _game_ is, makin’ us _wait_ like this. _Unless_. . . .”

 

“Maybe they’re trying to drive us crazy. _Er_ , in your case.” Peter could feel the static hum of the field against the flat of his palm. It really was _fascinating_ how quickly a body could not only adapt to pain, but learn to crave it . . . if only because it meant feeling _something_ instead of . . . _nothing_.

 

“I don’t think so,” Deadpool was saying thoughtfully, a frown in his low, gravelly voice. “I’ve been caught by creeps like these guys before and they always have some sort of plans or experiments or . . . ultimate goal, y’know? But _these_ assholes . . . I’m really startin’ to think they got nothin’ but this delta-field and a whole lotta _luck_. They managed to get the drop on us, maybe entirely by accident, and now, they’re scramblin’ to figure out what to do with their pretty prizes.”

 

Now, Peter was frowning, as well. His hand halted its incremental journey towards the delta-field and the only thing he ever seemed able to _feel_ , anymore. “Maybe they’re . . . waiting on orders from higher-ups, or something?”

 

“Maybe. Or maybe they’re rogue. HYDRA’s got more factions and cells than it can count with both shoes off.” Deadpool sighed. “All I know is, they weren’t expecting us at that warehouse lab-thing they had near the docks and they only managed to capture us because of that knock-out gas. Probably dropped most of their _own_ _guys_ , too, in the process. Fucking scorched earth.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“I mean, they obviously had the gas ready in case some hero or Avenger-type tried to take the place down from the inside, but they _weren’t_ gunnin’ for _us_ , _per se_. So now, they don’t know _what_ to do with us. They’re like Augustus Gloop with a golden ticket, man, and we’re the can—holy _fuck_ , Spidey, stop _doin’_ that!”

 

Peter blinked as Deadpool yanked his hand away from the delta-field again, just before his dry, barely-covered palm would’ve touched it. The other man tugged Peter around till they were face to—well, face, to collar bone. Peter looked up into Deadpool’s lenses, waiting. When the other man spoke, he sounded _very_ concerned.

 

“Jesus, Baby Boy . . . ya gotta _stop_ that . . . you’re, uh, really freakin’ Daddy-pool out, and he’s _not_ easily freaked, _comprende_?” Deadpool’s lenses were wide and worried once more. He took Peter’s hand, his thumb gently stroking the palm as he raised it up to look at it. Huffing, he clearly decided no further damage had been done. Though he _did_ pull Peter’s hand up to his masked-face and laid a lingering, but feather-light kiss on Peter’s burnt index finger. “Ya _gotta_ take care of yourself till we can find a way outta this mess, kid.”

 

Peter’s impassive face pulled down into a frown as a strange . . . _something_ . . . _moved_ through him. It felt like a _feeling_ , but it wasn’t anything from Peter’s usual—but still rare—repertoire of pain-anxiety-anger-rage-despair. However, even unidentified, it cut through Peter’s habitual numbness like a laser through fog.

 

Breath stuttering in and whistling out of him in a sudden rush, Peter shook. Stared up at Deadpool, confused, and _shook_.

 

“ _Peter_ ,” he said softly, his voice trembling like the hand that reached up to his throat. To the hem of the mask covering his face. A few moments later, that mask was on the floor of their cell and Peter’s over-warm, slightly sweaty face was bared. He blinked up at Deadpool then cleared his throat. “My name is Peter Parker.”

 

Deadpool’s lenses widened again and even through the mask, it was obvious his mouth had dropped open in a startled gape.

 

“ _Jesus_ ,” he exhaled heavily, his free hand reaching up to touch Peter’s face, but stopping just short of his cheek. For a few seconds, anyway. Then the tips of Deadpool’s gloved fingers were brushing Peter’s skin so softly and wonderingly, Peter shivered, as that _feeling_ shot through him again, only stronger, this time. He even grew briefly dizzy, realized he’d been holding his breath for who knew how long, and inhaled shakily. “Jesus, Baby Boy, you’re . . . you’re a fuckin’ _angel_. . . .”

 

Peter’s brows shot up and he smiled a little. “There’s no such thing.”

 

“Have you looked in a _mirror_ , lately?” Deadpool shook his head incredulously. “Those big, dark eyes, that _flawless_ skin, that plush mouth—fucking _Christ_ , that _mouth_!—and don’t even get me _started_ on that thick, gorgeous hair!” Still shaking his head, Deadpool laughed rather weakly. “ _Knew_ you were an angel because you’re so good and pure and selfless and shit . . . but I had no idea you’d _look_ like one, too. This . . . this is _not_ fair. This changes _everything_.”

 

“How do you mean?” Peter asked, tilting his head back and to the left, curious and . . . amused, despite himself. Despite _everything_. Even though they were captured and likely to be tortured and experimented on until they were killed—at least _killed_ in _Peter’s_ case . . . who knew _what_ they’d do to _Deadpool_? And didn’t _that_ cause a strange pang in Peter’s chest and gut?—Peter was actually _enjoying_ _himself_ more than he had in so very long. “What’s changed?”

 

“ _Everything_ , Peter! Fucking _everything_!” Deadpool groaned and let go of Peter’s hand, but didn’t stop caressing his face. His other arm then wrapped around Peter’s waist and pulled Peter flush against him and held him that way for a solid minute before Peter could find his voice.

 

“You’re, uh,” he began, and couldn’t finish, blushing and lowering his eyes to Deadpool’s chin. The ex-merc snorted again.

 

“Yeah, Pete. Yeah, I am.” Deadpool shrugged, then slowly eased his grip on Peter, putting a bit of space between their bodies. Just enough so that Peter could no longer feel the heat and hardness of Deadpool’s erection pressed against his abdomen. “I _always_ am, to some degree or other, when I’m with _you_. Or even just thinking about you. And now that I know you’re so _spectacularly_ gorgeous . . . this is pretty much _me,_ for the rest of ever, when confronted with you. End of story. Thank you. Good night.”

 

“You . . . you think I’m _gorgeous_?” Peter asked hesitantly as another new feeling rose within him, causing a flush across his skin, rolling over his entire body like a tsunami. It made him want to bob up and kiss Deadpool square on the mouth. After pushing up the mask, of course. “Really?”

 

“Um, _yes_. _Very_ _much_ so. Twenty-twenty vision behind these sexy lenses,” Deadpool replied wryly. “What—your boyfriends . . . or, uh, girlfriends don’t tell you that, like, constantly?”

 

“ _What_ boyfriends or girlfriends?” Peter’s eyebrows shot up ruefully. “Well, I mean, I _sorta_ had a girlfriend in high school a couple years ago, but . . . I realized I didn’t like _girls_ and she realized she _did_ , so. . . .”

 

“ _In high school a couple years ago_? Sheesh, Parker, tell me you’re at least  _legal_!” Deadpool moaned, his hand dropping away from Peter’s face, to flutter over his own heart melodramatically. Peter chuckled.

 

“I’ll be nineteen in September.”

 

Deadpool moaned again. “ _Barely_ legal . . . this is _so_ freakin’ wrong! I’ve been lustin’ after your fine-ass booty since you were seventeen! I’m a goddamn _perv_!”

 

Peter blushed again as yet another feeling, almost entirely groin-centric, made the very core of him tingle and warm. He didn’t even realize he had moved closer to Deadpool until their bodies were pressed against each other once more. Deadpool was still hard—hard- _er_ —and Peter was . . . _not_ unmoved by that.

 

“You didn’t _know_ I was seventeen, Deadpool. _Nobody_ did, except, well, Iron-Man,” Peter breathed as Deadpool shifted away in an attempt to put some space between them. But Peter grasped Deadpool’s biceps and held the other man still as he pressed their bodies together again. Deadpool’s next breath was shuddering, light, and fast . . . but he didn’t try to pull away. He knew the limits of his own strength _and_ Peter’s.

 

“Petey, I—”

 

“So . . . you’re not just making fun of me and being a dick when you . . . when you s-say those things about . . . about how much you like my butt?”

 

Deadpool’s laugh was a brief, desperate bark. “I can assure you, everything I’ve ever said about your ass is _entirely_ true, Baby Boy. You have the Helen of Troy of asses.”

 

Peter’s eyebrows shot up again and he smirked. “You’d go to war with Sparta over _my ass_?”

 

“Baby, I’d go to war with _Asgaard_ over your ass. Bitch-slap Thor and kidney-punch Odin just to touch it. Let’s not even _get into_ what I’d do just to bury my face in it and. . . .” Deadpool trailed off. “You’re sure you’re eighteen, right?”

 

“Pretty sure,” Peter said dryly. And when Deadpool smiled, it was wide and hungry, even through the leather mask.

 

“Good, because I’d do anything— _absolutely anything_ —to lay you down and eat that tight, virgin hole of yours out till you’re _beggin’_ me to stop makin’ you come.” Deadpool’s voice was hoarse and almost raw, and Peter turned redder than ever. He made a strange whimpering noise and pressed himself even tighter against Deadpool, his own dick getting hard in record time as they stared at each other, eyes to lenses, for several breathless minutes.

 

Finally, Peter spoke, his own voice an unsubtle croak, and shaking once more. “You’ve, uh . . . really gotta stop doing that.”

 

Deadpool swallowed audibly. “What?”

 

“S-saying things that make me wanna _k-kiss_ you,” Peter mumbled, lowering his gaze as his face went up in flames hotter than Hell, itself.

 

Then his eyes were widening as Deadpool touched his chin and tilted it up till their gazes met again.

 

“ _Really_ don’t _wanna_ stop, Peter,” Deadpool exhaled, his fingers reluctantly leaving Peter’s chin to drift to his own. Then down to the hem of his mask, which he slowly pushed up and up . . . till it was resting above full, soft-looking lips set in a clearly scarred face . . . then up some more, till he could settle the rolled-up leather on the bridge of his aquiline nose. This was nothing Peter hadn’t seen before, when he and Deadpool occasionally got take-out after their patrols. They’d sit on cars or the curb, and eat and talk—well, Deadpool talked enough for both of them, barely seeming to require more than the occasional nod or grunt in agreement to keep him going—and sometimes, in the yellow light of the streetlamps, Peter would steal glimpses of Deadpool’s scarred, uneven skin. And he’d wonder what it would be like to touch it . . . to trace those scars with gentle, reverent fingers. . . .

 

Before he could stop himself, unlike in the past, Peter was letting go of Deadpool’s thick, hard bicep to run his fingertips over skin that was amazingly soft and supple. It felt like chamois or moleskin fabric, almost, except warmer, even smoother, and about a million times _better_.

 

“Oh,” Peter sighed, slowly coming up on tiptoe, so that he could feel Deadpool’s startled breath on his face. His fingers continued to stroke and stroke, until Deadpool shivered _hard_ . . . then Peter cupped the other man’s face in his palm. “Your skin is so warm and _soft_.”

 

“Peter, I—”

 

“Do you feel like this _all over_ , Deadpool?”

 

Deadpool groaned again, his head bowing, bringing his face closer to Peter’s. “Wade. It’s, uh . . . I’m _Wade_. Wilson.”

 

“Okay. _Wade_ ,” Peter whispered, running his thumb across Deadpool’s lips, which was good for another hard shiver.

 

“Uh,” he breathed on Peter’s thumb, hot, humid, and fast. Then shook his head. “Listen, Baby Bo—” at that precise moment, the entire room seemed to . . . lurch. To _rock_. Peter and Deadpool were thrown off their feet and against the wall opposite the delta-field, at the back of their cell.

 

When the lurching seemed to stop—but the rocking _didn’t_ , only gentled into near-stillness—Deadpool groaned and went about the laborious process of separating their tangled limbs and picking them both up off the floor. Then he staggered toward the center of their cell, Peter carried bridal-style in his arms.

 

“Fuck, well, _that_ was disconcerting.” Snorting yet again, Deadpool’s concerned gaze landed on Peter pale face. “Y’okay, Baby—uh, Peter? Jesus, what in sweet fuck _was that_?” he added after Peter nodded absently.

 

Peter didn’t answer for long moments as it came to him. As he suddenly _understood_ , at last, where they were.

 

“We just weighed anchor and left port,” Peter mused, his arms around Deadpool’s neck nonetheless clutching tight as another _feeling_ —this one _far_ from pleasant—lanced through him and eclipsed the _very good_ feelings of just minutes ago. “We’re out to sea.”

 

#

 

“What . . . what time is it?”

 

Peter sighed sleepily as a nose nuzzled the nape of his neck, followed by a tender kiss, and Deadpool’s big arm—which was wrapped around Peter’s middle—clutched him tighter and closer.

 

“Time to get a watch, Petey-pie.”

 

Chuckling, Peter yawned and stretched a bit, his body somewhat achy from sleeping crammed into the bottom bunk, spooning with Deadpool. “Jerk. How long’ve we been here?”

 

“Eh. About fourteen hours. You’ve been out for about seven or eight.”

 

“ _Really_?” Alarmed, Peter started to sit up, but Deadpool held him down, shushing him. Peter didn’t put up any kind of fight or he could’ve easily overpowered his “Big Spoon.”

 

“Just chillax, Baby Boy. You obviously needed the rest. And you didn’t miss anything, believe me. Ship’s still sailing. Delta-field’s still . . . delta-ing.” Deadpool nuzzled Peter’s nape again. “God, you smell _amazing_. What kinda shampoo do you use?”

 

“Whatever’s cheap or on sale, I guess. Can’t really afford to be picky.” Peter yawned again. “Have you been awake all this time?”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“Must’ve been pretty boring.”

 

“Nah. Between your cute little snores and the talking in your sleep, you kept me pretty entertained.”

 

“Do, _not_! Well, not the second thing, anyway.” Peter blushed and elbowed Deadpool in the ribs none too softly. The other man _oofed_ and laughed.

 

“Yeah, ya do, Petey. I now know that you have an Aunt May and an Uncle Ben, you’re borderline flunking a class at school, and you’re afraid of Canadian bacon.” Deadpool sounded both amused and apologetic.

 

“I—I’m not _afraid_ of it, I just . . . am wary of it. That’s all. It’s not even _real bacon_. And I’m not flunking English Lit, I’m just . . . a little behind in it. Shakespeare is fucking nonsensical,” Peter insisted loftily. Deadpool made a noncommittal noise.

 

“He’s really not. Just long-winded. And, like, really old. But there’s a rhythm to ol’ Billy, and once you find it, he’s pretty fun to read. Especially _Titus Andronicus_.”

 

“Well, we’re reading _Troilus and Cressida_.”

 

“Ugh. His romances aren’t as good as the tragedies. Can’t beat _Hamlet_ and _MacBeth_ for good, old-fashioned murder and high-drama.” Deadpool sighed wistfully. “Or _King Lear_ for horrible family dysfunction.”

 

“You know, I’d never have figured you for a Shakespeare-buff,” Peter said, trying not to make it sound insulting. But Deadpool didn’t seem to take it that way.

 

“Eh. Well. English was about the only class I wasn’t failing in high school. That an’ phys. ed. And home ec, of course.”

 

“ _Home ec_?!”

 

“Mm. Don’t be so surprised that Wade Wilson’s got facets—including that of _domestic goddess_. I could make a brioche bacon cheeseburger that’d make you cream your spandex, Spidey.”

 

 _Peter_ was the one to groan, this time. “Great, now I’m hungry _and_ horny,” he muttered, then covered his mouth when he realized he’d said it aloud. Deadpool laughed again, his breath warm and gentle on Peter’s neck. His hand, heretofore flat on Peter’s abdomen, began to rub lightly, moving ever lower in slowly widening circles, till Peter’s breath began to catch.

 

“Well,” Deadpool murmured nonchalantly. “Bet I could take your mind off one of those by keeping it on the other, huh?”

 

“ _Oh, fuck!_ ” Peter exhaled rather explosively as Deadpool’s hand—bare in seconds when Deadpool braced his hand against Peter's abdomen to ease the glove off, letting it tumble to the floor—suddenly tugged down on the waistband of his pants, until Peter got the idea, and shifted and squirmed till the red and blue spandex was down to mid-thigh. Then Deadpool’s hand moved back up to Peter’s groin without preamble or hesitation.

 

Peter let out an embarrassing whimper-moan as Deadpool’s callused, hot palm slid down his half-hard shaft then back up.

 

Then down, then back up.

 

Then _again_.

 

And then Deadpool took Peter in hand, fingers wrapping around Peter’s _rapidly_ hardening dick as he stroked it slow and teasingly, his thumb occasionally sliding across the leaking tip. Every time it did, Peter made a soft, desperate noise high in his throat. A noise that got even more desperate and hoarse when Deadpool started thrusting gently, carefully against his ass. He, too, was hard, and _huge_ with it, at least as far as _Peter_ could judge these things.

 

“Fuck, Pete, _baby_ . . . you’re so responsive and good for me,” Deadpool whispered, his hand leaving Peter’s hard-on—which occasioned a plaintive groan from _Peter_ —only to withdraw it back over Peter’s body. “Mmm . . . you taste _good_.”

 

Peter could hear the soft, wet sounds as Deadpool sucked and licked Peter’s precome off his fingers and it sent Peter’s brain to a place where functioning properly was _not_ much of an option, anymore.

 

“Fuck, _Wade_. . . .” Peter was begging, but he had no idea for _what_. Deadpool pressed against Peter’s ass again for a long moment, before pulling off of his own fingers with an obscene pop, then shifting around until he nearly knocked Peter off the bunk.

 

“ _Oops_! Sorry, Baby Boy . . . this leather is clinging to my thighs like a _sonuvabitch_ ,” he apologized cheerily, hugging Peter close as he settled against his back once more. And Peter realized he wasn’t feeling _leather_ against his bare ass anymore, but damp, scar-ridged, uneven, softer-than-chamois skin . . . and a good bit of that skin was covering something that felt like a steel rod.

 

“Oh,” Peter breathed. Then, more than a little intimidated and shocked: “Oh!”

 

“ _Hush_ , baby, I got ya,” Deadpool murmured, shifting himself further down the bunk a bit, even as he started stroking Peter again. When that steel-hard dick was positioned in the crevice of Peter’s thighs, just below his ass, Deadpool began to thrust slowly, gently between them. “Just like this, baby . . . oh, _fuck_ . . . yeah, that’s . . . that’s _so nice_. . . .”

 

His hand began to move faster and tighter on Peter’s dick, still alternately thumbing the tip but also squeezing Peter’s balls occasionally, till Peter was moving with him, thrusting into Deadpool’s sure grip then back against him, letting the other man fuck his clenched thighs with increasing power and speed. It wasn’t too long before Peter had reached back to grasp Deadpool’s arm just to keep from being rocked right off the bunk. His other hand clutched at the very edge of the bunk until his hand and the metal began to creak.

 

“Please . . . God, Wade, _please_. . . .”

 

“Close, baby?” Deadpool gritted out.

 

“ _So_ close, just . . . _don’t stop_. . . .”

 

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Deadpool grunted, his hand tightening around Peter’s length and stroking faster and harder than ever, until Peter’s dick—and the rest of him—felt as if it was burning from the inside out, then right back in. The only thing that could possibly make this better would be. . . .

 

“I wish . . . I wish you were _inside_ _me_ , Wade. . . .” Peter panted, pushing back against Deadpool as his balls tightened and—and—

 

“ _Fuuuuuuck_. . . .” Deadpool let go of Peter’s dick to pull Peter back against him hard, his cock stabbing fiercely between Peter’s tight-closed thighs several times in rapid succession before Deadpool was coming with a loud, almost pained groan in Peter’s ear. And Peter, at the first thick, hot spurt of come between his legs, came, too: hard, sweet, and sharp, with an octave-deeper rumble, low in his chest as he shot ropes of come all over the abdomen and stomach of his already-wrecked spidey-suit.

 

And for a while after that, there was only . . . floating. . . .

 

And _feeling_.

 

It was . . . _incredibly_ good.

 

 _Wonderful_ , even.

 

His return to Earth was slow and drifting. He became increasingly aware of his situation: laying on his back on a not-very-soft surface, with someone straddling his sticky thighs, cupping his face in rough, callused, but nonetheless gentle palms, and kissing his face feverishly, yet tenderly.

 

When he hummed happily and tried to kiss back, those kisses began targeting his lips instead of just randomly on his face. The lips that pressed his almost _frantically_ —and most definitely _possessively_ —were so soft and surprisingly sweet, their owner making muffled, helpless little moans that Peter parted his own lips to taste.

 

Then, with a hesitant flicker of tongue and a desperate, but genteel moan, Deadpool was slowly exploring and mapping Peter’s mouth. Learning and memorizing it. Then _plundering it_.

 

It wasn’t Peter’s first kiss—that honor had gone to MJ, back in junior year of high school—but this was only the second _person_ he’d ever kissed. He was quickly overwhelmed, and let Deadpool lead him through the kiss like it was an unfamiliar dance. He submitted to the mouth on his own and the body atop his, first copying what Deadpool did, then improvising a little. Then a little _more_ when Deadpool’s response was positive and encouraging.

 

It didn’t feel like too long into the make-out session before Deadpool was shifting to push his fully hard—again—cock down against Peter, who’d—with the refractory time of _any_ teenage boy, especially a _mutant spiderling_ —been getting hard practically since the moment Deadpool’s tongue tickled his own.

 

Peter suddenly cried out into their kiss as Deadpool’s continued shifting brought their hard-ons in contact. And with the shifting and grinding it was . . . Peter couldn’t even think of an appropriate superlative in coherent terms, for how _good_ it was.

 

And then, when Deadpool’s big, ungloved hand snaked in-between their bodies to wrap around them both, Peter bucked up jerkily into that almost punishing grip, gasping as it slid up and down them both.

 

“You like that, Petey?” Deadpool panted into Peter’s mouth, licking at Peter’s lips and tongue. “Gonna make you come so hard, you see the fourth dimension. Then I’m gonna get my finger nice and wet and slippery in our spunk then finger-fuck you till you come _again_. Bet you never even _had_ a finger up there, before huh? Not even your own. Isn’t that right?”

 

Peter moaned, his eyes scrinched shut as Deadpool stole more kisses.

 

“C’mon, Petey-pie . . . I asked a question. . . .”

 

“Please, _Wade_ . . . no, never, never had anything in my ass before, please . . . _please_. . . .”

 

“ _Oh_ , yeah. _Gotta_ love a pretty, little thing with pretty, little manners.” Deadpool nuzzled Peter’s cheek, his hand as ceaseless and relentless as a machine, his breath as quick and stuttered as Peter’s now. “Gonna make you my pampered little Pillow-Princess when we get outta here, baby. Gonna keep you fucked-out and happy in my bed, and feed you tacos for dinner and pancakes for breakfast. How’s _that_ sound?” He grunted, thrusting harder into his fist and against Peter, who shuddered and bucked and thrashed wildly enough he nearly threw Deadpool off him. “Oh, fuck, _yeah_ . . . _so hot_ . . . gonna make you _mine forever_ , Baby Boy. You want that?”

 

“ _Yes, God, Wade!_ ” Peter shouted, near tears as his body tensed and came, white-hot and agonizingly intense, shooting all over Deadpool’s hand and dick.

 

This time, by the time Peter re-inhabited his body, Deadpool was sitting up over him, straddling his thighs still, and looking down at him. He was grinning and playfully running the index finger of his right hand through the hot, sticky mess at Peter’s groin.

 

“Whah? _What_?” Peter asked blearily, dazed and come-stupid.

 

“Promises to keep, Baby Boy,” Deadpool murmured, his grin turning more than a little predatory. “And _miles_ to go before we sleep.”

 

Then he was pushing a wide-eyed, heavily breathing Peter’s left leg off the bunk and his right leg up in the air and—and—

 

#

 

Peter was woken by being pitched off the bottom bunk.

 

A moment later, Deadpool landed on top of him and they both grunted as the wind was driven out of them.

 

For a few minutes, all was crazy, confusing chaos as the ship rocked and rolled, shuddered and shook. One or the other of them would’ve just managed to pick themselves and the other up and they’d be thrown down again, rolling around like bowling pins, hitting the back wall, the wall under the bunk, the toilet, and—several, painful times—the delta-field.

 

And then, after an eternity of being tossed about like flotsam and jetsam on the crest of a wave, everything . . . _stopped_.

 

Peter groaned and looked over at Deadpool—who was scrambling away from the delta-field, the back and left side of his suit smoking—and crawled out from under the bottom bunk, heretofore forgotten mask in hand.

 

He had a feeling it’d be time to put it on again—become _Spider-Man_ , again— _very_ soon.

 

“Y’okay, Wade?” he asked, dragging himself across the cell to the other man, who was grumbling as he pulled his mask down all the way.

 

“Considering I’ve been bounced around and nearly barbecued, I’m tops, kiddo,” he said wearily, opening his arms. Peter crawled into them without hesitation, settling between the ex-merc’s legs and against his chest. He let Deadpool take the mask from his hands and kiss his hair, lingering for a few moments, before pulling the spidey-mask over Peter’s head and face. “How _you_ doin’?”

 

“Never better.”

 

Deadpool laughed. “Ah, that’s just the last of the endorphins talkin’, Princess. We were only out foooooor . . . huh, about forty-five minutes,” he finished after checking his watch which, surprisingly, still worked.

 

“Wow. I’ve gotten whole nights of sleep—though not recently—that weren’t as restful as that power nap,” Peter admitted wonderingly. Deadpool hummed and held him tighter, nuzzling the top of his head.

 

“That’s ‘cause you weren’t sleepin’ with _me_ , Princess.”

 

Peter blushed. “S-stop calling me _Princess_!”

 

Deadpool bowed his head, leaning his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “I apologize, my Queen.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Peter swatted at Deadpool’s powerful thigh. “You’re _such_ a dick.”

 

“Got it a _little_ wrong, baby: I _have_ such a dick. Such a big, thick . . . _hard_ . . . dick.” Deadpool nuzzled Peter’s shoulder, pushing the aforementioned big, thick, _hard_ dick against Peter’s ass. Which was still slightly sore from having two of Deadpool’s seemingly _massive_ fingers in it. He moaned softly, anyway, his head falling back onto Deadpool’s shoulder.

 

“Are you ever _not_ hard, Wade?”

 

“Not so’s ya’d notice, nah.” He pressed a mask-covered kiss on Peter’s shoulder-blade. “Good thing you’ve got that spidey-healing workin’ for ya, huh?”

 

“Yeah. Good thing.” Peter rolled his eyes. Then gasped as the ship convulsed once with a loud _boom_. Then again. Then a _third_ time, as Deadpool’s arms wrapped protectively around Peter's smaller frame.

 

Minutes passed with no more convulsions, and Peter and Deadpool looked at each other.

 

“Think that’s the cavalry?” Peter whispered hopefully. Deadpool leaned his forehead against Peter’s.

 

“Anything’s possible, Baby Boy. If anyone could find us, it’d be your Avenger-buddies. Stark seems awful fond of ya.” Deadpool’s low voice was a soft, somewhat deadly growl. Peter smiled a little.

 

“Jealous, much? Mr. Stark’s just my mentor. He and Dr. Banner are teaching me all sorts of cool stuff at my internship.”

 

“I’ll bet,” Deadpool muttered. Then grunted when Peter elbowed him again with a little spidey-strength.

 

“Seriously, Wade, Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner are . . . like my dads. Or really _old_ older brothers, or something. Also . . . I’m pretty sure that they’re, um . . . you know. . . .”

 

“Playin’ hide the stethoscope?” Deadpool sounded a lot less unhappy, now. Downright curious, even. “Wow. That’s . . . weird.  I mean, I had my money on Stark and Cap doin’ the do.”

 

Peter blinked. Then shuddered. “Ew. After that horrible war-thing they had, I’m _still_ surprised they haven’t killed each other! Mr. Stark still barely even _looks_ at Captain Rogers, let alone _talks_ to him! Especially when _Sergeant Barnes_ is around!”

 

“* _My_  only  _love_  sprung from  _my_  only  _hate_!/ Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me/ That I must love a loathèd enemy,” Deadpool intoned dramatically. Then his lenses gave the impression of rolling when Peter gazed up at him blankly. “Philistine. What’re they _teachin’_ in American schools, these days?”

 

“Nothing much, I can assure you,” Peter replied good-naturedly, settling back into Deadpool’s arms for a few peaceful moments, before sighing. “I guess we gotta get ready for whatever’s comin’ our way, huh?”

 

“Yeah . . . we probably should, Petey. Might be cavalry, but it might be HYDRA lookin’ to put bullets in our heads, rather than let us be taken alive.” Deadpool sighed heavily, too. Peter quirked a limp half-smile.

 

“Right. Great pep-talk, Coach Dale! We’ll be Hoosiers, yet!” Peter shifted, signaling he was ready to stand, and Deadpool instantly helped him to his feet.

 

Hand in hand, made their way to the wall opposite the delta-field.

 

When they were both standing, backs against the wall, still holding hands tight, both singed, raggedy—and _sticky_ , in their come-stained costumes—but defiant and with all their fight still intact, Peter lifted up his mask with his free hand, just enough for Deadpool— _Wade_ —to see his smile.

 

“Y’know . . if we _do_ make it out of this alive and well, I’ll _gladly_ be your Pillow-Princess, stud. For as long as you want me.”

 

Wade looked over at him, clearly surprised even through the mask, and then grinned.

 

“I’mma unalive the _fuck_ outta the next HYDRA agent that lays a hand on either of us, baby, but I’ll for damn-sure _thank_ _him_ , first, ‘cause . . . as first dates go . . . this was one of my better ones!”

 

Peter snorted and pulled his mask down, wondering absently just what he was getting himself into . . . letting himself _feel things_ for _anyone_ . . . let alone _Wade Wilson_. . . .

 

But then . . . he so rarely felt _anything at all_ for anyone who _wasn’t_ Wade, that Peter supposed it made a crazy sort of sense, after all.

 

 _Crazy, indeed_ , he thought as the delta-field began to flicker and power down, and Wade squeezed his hand. Peter squeezed back and _stood . . ._ ready to face anything.

 

END

 

Continued in: [Safe Harbor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8297993)

**Author's Note:**

> *Romeo And Juliet Act 1, scene 5, 134–141
> 
> Prompts: _“You really gotta stop doin’ that.”_  
>  “What?”  
> “Sayin’ things that make me wanna kiss you.”
> 
> AND:
> 
> Peter:STOP CALLING ME PRINCESS!  
> Deadpool:I apologize, my Queen.
> 
> Craving more? Lemme know. And [follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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